


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by Opy3332



Series: Four Shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, Gratuitous caffeine refrences, John and Sherlock are a bit slow, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opy3332/pseuds/Opy3332
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Four Shots'. John has moved into 221B and quit his SIS/Barista job. What is next for him and Sherlock as they embark on being flatmates, friends, and possibly more? If they can sort themselves out that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't leave this little universe alone. Thanks especially to DaringD for insisting that I don't.

 

Chapter 1

 

It had been almost two weeks since John had moved into 221B. The move itself had been short and relatively uneventful. While he owned a bit more things than he had when he was first home, it still all fit nicely into only a handful of boxes and two suitcases and took only one trip in an Anthea-provided car to bring it from the bedsit to Baker Street. It had been rather anti-climactic all around.

For all of John’s concerns, they settled into a rhythm fairly easily. Sherlock was manic–going from high to low far quicker than John thought possible–but he was also captivating. John, while at once used to the unpredictability of the military, was not generally one to make rash decisions in his personal life. Sherlock seemed to be the exception to that rule, if John’s quitting and subsequent move was anything to show for. He’d been afraid this move would result in a complete takeover of his life, and while not completely true he’d also not been disappointed by the overall exposure and involvement Sherlock seemed to have integrated into it.

Daily routines were settled into—revolving around tea and telly for John most days. He was getting by for money right now, the SIS had paid decently and he’d had little expenses previously, but had been contemplating looking for employment again. Sherlock had made the one comment about needing an assistant, but it had never fully come up again. John thought he might need something that gave him space also—a reason to get away sometimes. He’d only know Sherlock less than two months but he’d already mingled so fully into his life that it was a bit startling, a bit concerning.

 

John had even helped on the latest case Sherlock had been recruited for. Just a few days after the move, the Detective Inspector from The Yard, Greg if John had remembered correctly, had stopped by looking for Sherlock’s help. Not ten minutes prior, Sherlock has been complaining about boredom, but he immediately feigned disinterest as the case was explained. John’s eyes had hurt from the effort of not rolling them mercilessly; sometimes Sherlock was like a little kid, or a puppy you had to convince to go outside even though it had to wee.

After five minutes of watching the exchange, John’d had enough.

“Sounds interesting, Sherlock. It’d be amazing to watch you at work again.” He throws out there. And he felt he knew Sherlock well enough already to know it will work. He isn’t disappointed, Sherlock stops mid-rant and turns towards him.

“You still do that out loud, you realize?” He asked. John had simply smiled in return.

Lestrade’s eyes had flicked between the two of them, but he had wisely kept his mouth shut, knowing this was probably his best chance of getting Sherlock interested.

“Fine. We’ll meet you there.” Sherlock announces with a pout.

 

The case wasn’t quite as interesting as their first together, but it involved smuggling and a chase around one of the seedier business districts in the city. Sherlock, pacing and muttering, had his epiphany moment inside the warehouse and he’d sprinted out the back entrance, John hot on his heels. They caught the suspect as he was attempting to escape under a chain link fence and tackled him to the ground, threats abounding. John’s limp really was just a distant memory at this point; and he couldn’t be happier about it.

Lestrade attempted to lecture them on conduct once they’d stood up and released the man, bruised but alive, but they were both giggling and already turning from the crime scene.

“Statements tomorrow, Sherlock!” He yelled after them in an attempt to regain his authority. Both John and Sherlock had simply continued walking, a slight wave over the back of his shoulder the only indication Sherlock had heard him.

 

Adrenaline was high between them again as they took a cab back to Baker Street. It reminded John of their last case together, and he wondered if this would be the tipping point yet again, if they would cement some weird pattern between them. There’d been relatively few physical interactions between the two, and John couldn’t decide where they stood or how he felt about it all. The air seemed to spark when they were in too close of proximity to each other though, and John’s mind often drifted to those kisses they’d exchanged, of the words Sherlock had whispered, half in promise and half in threat.

It was the little things that confused John the most–when Sherlock would blatantly step into his personal space, when he would catch him watching him, eyes darting around his lips, or the simple ease with which they tended to exist together. It was all flashing through his mind as they climbed out of the cab and into the flat.

Shedding his coat, John hung it up and removed his shoes before he headed to flip on the kettle. He wasn’t consciously trying to reenact that scene, but it catches him how similar it is and he deliberately stopped and removed himself from the kitchen as Sherlock hung his coat and flopped onto the couch.

“Brilliant as always,” John said as he handed a cup to Sherlock. He received a hum in reply.

“Before she suggested the barista job, my therapist had suggested a blog as a way to entertain myself,” John began, and Sherlock snorted in derision. “I’ve been thinking of it again.”

“Congratulations, John. You’ve joined the ranks of the non-brainless idiots of the world.”

“Bastard,” John chortled softly. “I was thinking of writing up the cases–wondered if you’d be okay with that? What you’d think of it.”

“Will they be romanticized novelizations?” He asked as he sat up and eyed John speculatively.

“Well, probably not quite that grand or dramatic. But they won’t be like your website. I think people might be interested–I know I am.”

“My very own Boswell,” and there was a slight smile on Sherlock’s face as he said it, so John counts it as permission.

John was tired; it was after midnight and he was still adapting to the slightly random schedule they’d been keeping. He drained the rest of the tea and stood up from his chair.

“I’m going to head up. Try to get at least some sleep tonight,” he said affectionately. And, feeling bold, he ran his fingers along the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoulders as he passed by the back of the couch. He felt Sherlock’s eyes tracking the back of him on his ascent up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

 

Sherlock was a caffeine addict—something not many others seemed to realize about him. John wondered at that as he supposes it really shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone—Sherlock’s entire being seemed to scream ‘addictive personality’ to him. Caffeine was simply one of the few legal and semi-safe, semi-healthy options to satiate that need. John had obviously known this—having experienced his four shot lattes first hand. But it was obvious everywhere as well. Tea was the choice when at home or when needing a constant source, black coffee if he was out in the morning, lattes if he was out in the afternoon. It was almost as regular as clockwork and John wondered if Sherlock realized that–if he knew how well John knew him already. It was one of the few schedules Sherlock seemed to have—aware of it or not.

 

It was a lazy morning in the flat and John had made tea for the both of them. He was flipping through the paper, looking half-heartedly at the jobs. Sherlock was alternating between laying supine on the couch and jumping up and pacing manically. John hid his smile behind his tea cup. His small cushion of finances would run out soon, especially at the rate with which they ate out. Sure, about half the time the food was free or reduced thanks to whatever random service Sherlock had provided the proprietor, but it was still a definite change in John’s spending pattern. He circled two possible options under the healthcare section and gave up, put his tea cup into the sink and wandered into the living room.

He’d written up a rough draft of their second case together, “The Red-Headed League” he was thinking of calling it. He’d started the blog page way back when Ella had first suggested it and had posted one pathetic beginning entry of ‘Nothing’. Writing about Sherlock’s cases seemed like a good exercise in something to do and he thought maybe Ella would agree; if he were still seeing her that is. Deciding to finish it up and get it posted, to finally add something to that page, he picked up his laptop and settled in at the desk.

 

Since the incident the other night, when John had so blatantly touched him, Sherlock had taken to watching John. Oh, he thought he was being subtle, masked it behind other things, but John was aware. And it was driving him crazy. Their constant proximity and the tension that was wrapped around them was putting John on perpetual alert and there seemed to be an almost constant underlying buzz of arousal going through him. He wondered how long it would be until they cracked. Sherlock seemed a bit oblivious to relationships. Oh, he’d obviously had some experience, no one could pull out flirting and demands and then kiss him like that without it; but there was an almost innocent quality to his current ponderings that made John wonder even more so about his past.

And John...well John had his own fair share of issues. Experience may not be an area where he was lacking, he didn’t get his nicknames for nothing, but he’d never been serious about a man, and hadn’t had what anyone would classify a ‘normal’ relationship since before he’d gone into the army. Between the two of them they were a mass of failures and confusion. He supposed maybe they were just an explosion waiting to happen.

 

As John typed, he could sense it yet again—Sherlock’s gaze flicked to him every so often as he continued to pace. He had some private case on, not one from The Yard. John had been slightly surprised—he seemed to turn those down a dime a dozen, claiming they were child’s play. And while some of them were (even John had correctly deduced 3 of the 5 cases that were simple adultery), John felt some of the ones Sherlock turned down, especially the ones willing to pay, could have held his interest for at least a little while.

“Boring.” He would simply state when John asked. Or, John’s favorite, “Trivialities. I haven’t time for them. This,” he would continue, tapping his head, “is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see? Why should I waste my time on anything that isn’t important?” John had heard that speech three times already. Three.

 

“Do you have to type so loudly?” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed as he hopped over the coffee table and into John’s proximity. John startled slightly and looked up at him, faces mere inches apart. Whatever showed on his face must not have been good as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m going out,” he announced.

“Okay,” John responded feebly, but he was already talking to empty air as Sherlock had so quickly spun around and huffed out the door.

 

Two days passed in similar fashion. Sherlock seemed to dart off and disappear the moment John was awake and down the stairs. It was frustrating and John couldn’t figure out what he’d done to annoy the man, other than his apparently loud typing. Hardly seemed justified—though Sherlock’s world vision was decidedly different than John’s.

Finally exasperated and bored, John called up one of the clinics he’d seen listed in the newspaper that was looking for locum work. It wasn’t ideal, not at all similar to the battle field medicine he was used to, but it would be money and it wouldn’t be coffee—it would be what he’d trained to do, something he liked and was good at. And it would get him out of the damn flat for some time by himself.

It’s his luck that the woman who answered sounded a bit desperate, and she asked if he could come in today for an interview.

“Not much interest in locum work to be honest, we were reaching out on a limb here.” He’d nodded, despite that she can’t see him, and agreed to come in over the lunch hour.

 

Cleaned up and ready to go he took the tube to the station closest the address she’d given him. It’s a small little clinic, basic and homey. He gave his name at the desk and they led him to a small back office.

A woman walked in. “Hi. I’m Dr. Sawyer. You’re Dr. Watson?”

“Yes. John.”

“Hello, John.” She looked down at the CV he’d handed her.

“It’s just locum work,” she said apologetically.

“No, that’s fine.”

“You’re, um ... well, you’re a bit over-qualified.”

“I could always do with the money. And I can’t not work, doesn’t end well for me.”

“Well, we’ve got two away on holiday this week, and one’s just left to have a baby. Might be a bit mundane for you. Colds, sniffles, vaccines.”

“No; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works.” He might be trying to convince himself more than her, but it could be true. A touch point away from Sherlock may be necessary.

“It says here you were a soldier…” She trailed off, obviously curious and unsure.

John coughed. “Yes. And a doctor.”

 

He is surprised when he walked out a few minutes later with a job. It wasn’t exactly the worst interview he’d ever done, paled in comparison to the one with Mycroft in fact, but he’d certainly got odd vibes from Dr. Sawyer.

He’s cheered by his good luck and whistled absentmindedly as he unlocked the door to 221B and climbed up the stairs. Sherlock was stood at the top of the stairs, just inside the door, when he got up there. He was holding two take out coffee cups.

“Hello, then. Back?” John asked with a smile, glad to see him.        

Sherlock shoved one of the cups into his hand. “It’s cold. You weren’t here.”

“Ta. Yeah, went to see about a job. It went well. Just locum work, but I start tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s steps faltered slightly. “I didn’t realize you were looking for work.”

“Bills to pay,” John chirped out.

Sherlock stared at him a moment, eerily reminiscent of their last interaction, before stalking into his bedroom and slamming the door.

John threw his hands up in exasperation, coffee momentarily forgotten. Luckily it truly wasn’t hot anymore. He went to set it down on the table when he noticed a small package on it. It was wrapped in plain brown wrapping as if it had come that way and Sherlock had put a small sticky note on it with simply the word ‘John’ on it.

He glanced at Sherlock’s door, still firmly shut, before he reached for the package and tore the paper off. It was a small box of business cards. He opened them. The cards inside were plain but elegant. And John had clearly misread the situation, or Sherlock, or possibly both.

“Well, damn,” he thought as he sat down on the kitchen chair and stared at the card in his hand.

 

Dr. John H. Watson

Consulting Detective, Medical Division

Blogger

London


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

John sat at the table. He thought about making tea—he was good at that. No screwing up there. But, as he stared at the take away cup that still sat on the table, he decided to reheat it and drink that instead. A small showing, even if Sherlock may never know about it.

Still only lukewarm after he’d heated it, he drank the latte quickly. Caramel, his favorite. He sighed and let his mind wander for a few minutes. Feeling bad about the situation would not make it better however so he stood up and paced around, feeling adrift. It wasn’t even gone tea time yet and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to get away from the flat and hide or park himself outside of Sherlock’s bedroom door and wait for it to open. Having decided on that latter, he plopped himself down on a chair and stared at the door, figured he’d give him an hour tops to flounce back out.

 

An hour and a half later, John had given up and headed to the store. He was tired of waiting and the flat had little to no food in it and he had used nearly the last of the tea that morning. He picked up take away on the journey back and called out to Sherlock once he’d put the shopping away. After no response, John headed over to his door.

He knocked. “Sherlock? I got dinner.” Still no response came. John sighed and trudged back to the couch. He ate in silence, not even having bothered to turn on the telly. It had been weeks since he’d felt lonely, not since before he’d moved into Baker Street, if not since he’d met Sherlock, and the sudden feeling overwhelmed him.

The voice inside his head sounded suspiciously like his sister Harry as it chastised and belittled him for his thoughts and situation. He was, unfortunately, far too familiar with Harry and her mocking capabilities, and the voice sounded far too real. The evening passed as John switched between typing loudly and contrarily on his laptop, to cleaning randomly, to turning on and off the telly, to simply pacing. He finally forced himself to go upstairs to bed, knowing he had his first early morning in a while the next day. One last look was thrown at Sherlock’s door as he made his slow retreat.

 

 

John headed off in the morning for his first day at the clinic. He’d awoken after a night of restless sleep and readied himself quickly and efficiently. Out of habit he’d cooked enough breakfast for two so he left a covered plate on the table, hoping Sherlock would emerge and eat at least something. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, neatly labeled and obviously untouched. John sighed. The detritus on the table seemed to have shifted and minimized though, so Sherlock had at least left his room at some point it seemed. He hovered outside of Sherlock’s door for a moment, debated knocking, but turned and left with yet another sigh.

 

The morning passed both quicker and slower than he’d hoped. Dr. Sawyer (“Sarah, please”) spent the first hour or so showing him the ropes–where they kept supplies, their computer system, workflow, introductions, unwritten rules of the clinic, etc.–and generally tried to make him feel at home. He had his first patient right before lunch and it was nonstop after that. The issues were mundane and simple, but it was medicine and it was a distraction, so John was not completely unhappy about it. Sherlock and their issues weighed constantly in the back of his mind though.

Sarah took him for a quick lunch at the sandwich shop across the street. She tried a few times to flirt and John, while flattered, was unsure how to respond. The mess he’d gotten himself into with Sherlock had confused him. He wasn’t sure dating his boss was the best idea either–could make for an awkward work environment if things turned sour. And John figured they would, if his history was any indication. It flattered him still though, so he smiled back a few times and tried to stay neutral.

Overall, when John left for the day, he was content. His purpose in getting a job had not been, as Sherlock had apparently thought, to distance himself from the detective. The idea of some space was not a bad thing, but John wanted to feel needed–it was what he was best at. And medicine was what made him do that. And he had loved helping Sherlock on his cases, and God, he hoped he would still be allowed; because he felt so alive during those times and Sherlock was incandescent. John didn’t want those times to end. But, he was a doctor, and he wanted to be a doctor, and he loved being a doctor. Locum work seemed to be the best solution as it left him generally available to Sherlock and his whims. He just needed to get Sherlock to see that, to understand that. And for them to maybe talk about the other thing between them, the other elephant in the room.

 

 

 

Sherlock hadn’t slept. He’d spent the night lost in experiments, attempting to block out the ridiculousness that he’d succumbed to. Mycroft’s voice hummed in and out of his consciousness all night. ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,’ it repeated over and over, alternating between mocking and encouraging. It had been Mycroft’s motto, his very being, since Sherlock had been just a child.

The moment his bedroom door had slammed behind him last night he’d stalked over to his small, personal desk and had begun to organize. Papers, experiments, pens; anything he could find was meticulously dealt with. Sherlock didn’t like cleaning, but his mind needed something to do and there was little else in this small enclosure.  He attended to them with a force and vigor that would have surprised anyone. But he refused to deal with anything else, shutting it up and locking it away in the recesses of his mind palace. His brain was still aware of the noises in the flat, and he tracked John as he sat outside his room, left, and came back. He heard him call about dinner, but ignored him. Some might have called it a sulk, but Sherlock preferred to see it as a tactical retreat.

It seemed to take hours before John had finally trekked up to bed, and it was time interspersed with stomps and swear words that Sherlock strained to interpret. Once John had finally gone, Sherlock snuck out and grabbed his microscope and a few odds and ends from the kitchen table and skulked back to his room. Now at least he could actually be productive whilst in his self-imposed exile. It was a much more effective way of distracting his mind.

Sherlock had been brought abruptly out of his examination of a particularly distinct larva that had been found stuck to the bottom of a victim’s shoe when he heard John wake up. His morning ablutions were completed with military efficiency and the smell of breakfast had wafted into Sherlock’s room, reminding him that it had been a while since he’d eaten, even for him. When John came and stood outside his door, he knew. He sensed him there, hesitating, and could imagine him, fist raised as if contemplating knocking. The walls that Sherlock had spent the night rebuilding shook slightly. Sherlock had sighed just after John had, but he wasn’t sure if it was in relief or frustration.

Ten minutes after he’d heard John head out, ‘to his new job,’ Sherlock snarled in his head, he crept out of the bedroom. The covered plate on the table was met with mixed feelings, but he was hungry enough that he ignored them as he dug in.

After he dressed and readied himself, he spun slowly in a circle and surveyed the flat. He needed to get out. A case would be the perfect distraction he decided, so he headed out the door and into London to find himself one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, as always, for reading. There is a crime scene in this chapter and my knowledge of both medicine and police work is rudimentary at best, so hopefully it doesn't drive anyone too crazy with inaccuracies.

Chapter 4

 

 

Two days passed before John saw Sherlock again. He was always conveniently out or hidden in his room anytime John was home. John had worked short shifts on the next two days after his first day, filling in for the morning and afternoon of two other doctors. He was half glad for it as it filled his time nicely and helped him avoid tension. Still, he felt he and Sherlock needed to talk. It was a bit difficult to do that when the man had all but disappeared. John texted him regularly, at least twice a day, to confirm he was alive and not trapped in some perilous situation. Sherlock had ignored his first two texts until John had finally begged him to let him know he was fine. And even then his reply had been short and terse. ‘Fine. Working. SH’ his text had read. After that they’d shortened to simply, ‘Alive. SH’

Finally, on the third day after ‘the incident’ as it had been labeled in John’s mind, Sherlock stalked suddenly out of his room and towards John, who was sat on the couch, eating toast and half-watching the morning news on the telly.

“Time to go, John,” he fired off carelessly.

“Wait, what?” John asked to Sherlock’s back; the detective had already moved to grab his coat off the hook. But John had begun to move as well, already stood up, excited and hopeful at this turn of events.

“Body. I need your expertise.”

“New case?” John asked as he slipped on his shoes and grabbed his keys and wallet.

“No. But a new body, one I wasn’t expecting” Sherlock responded tersely, and he sounded personally affronted that he hadn’t predicted this.

John tried to squelch the feeling that crept up when Sherlock replied. He’d been working this case alone then, that meant. It hurt perhaps more than John had thought it might. But it seemed he needed him now so he nodded and followed behind.

They hailed a cab outside of 221B and Sherlock spewed off an address to an area of London John recognized only for its extravagance, he’d certainly never ventured there. Lestrade was standing out front of a posh town home when the cab stopped and both Sherlock and John strode up to him.

“Thanks for coming,” Lestrade said with a grimace. “Butler found her this morning when he got here, called it in.”

“Same as the last ones?”

“Almost. Message is even weirder this time and the items left on the body are identical except for one.”

Sherlock hummed in thought as they made their way into the house and up the stairs to what was obviously the master bedroom. John let out a small whistle and Lestrade shot a quick grin and nod his way. Sherlock stalked around the room, investigating different parts of it, poking around and generally being odd, before he knelt down next to the body.

“Good to see you again,” Lestrade said to John as he came over and stood next to him.

John nodded in reply, eyes on Sherlock.

“You get all settled in?” Lestrade asked just as Sherlock called for John. John shrugged slightly at Lestrade and walked over to the body and stooped down.

“What are your thoughts?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes.

“Cause of death seems obvious,” John began. “However, I’m not quite convinced.”

“Rightly so,” Sherlock interjected.

“What are you seeing?” Lestrade asked as he came up behind John.

“The mouth and the area around it. See that coloring? Stab wound located there and that serious, would have bled out in less than a minute. Not enough time for cyanosis due to lack of oxygen. There are these strange marks near the bottom of her ears as well–almost look like marks from a strap or a tie of some kind. The wound was definitely sustained while she was still alive, but just barely I’d guess. The wound is fairly straight, no wiggling, so she wasn’t moving when it happened. Though, by the looks of her wrist, she may have been bound as well.”

“Good job, John,” Sherlock chirped, almost proudly, before starting on a long-winded explanation to Lestrade as to why this murder was actually more important than the previous, yet similar, ones and why that, therefore, meant this was the true intended victim the entire time. John lost him about four minutes, and two exclamations of ‘amazing’, in, but still watched it unfold. John wondered what it said about him that he could envision standing next to this man for years listening to him spout his work. In their current situation he didn’t want to analyze it too closely.

They took a cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock having told Lestrade he’d gotten all he could from the scene and needed to think.

“I’ll make sure he texts,” John had added conspiratorially to Lestrade just before he turned to catch up to Sherlock. Lestrade waved in thanks.

Sherlock was animated when they get home, bouncing ideas off of John and tapping away on his phone, muttering to himself. John simply watched him; basked in it all while he felt he still could. The day had gotten away from them and John, hungry and feeling non helpful with Sherlock’s current train of thought, opted for a break.

“I’m going to go down and get some food from Speedy’s–want anything?” As expected, Sherlock shook his head, so John headed out quickly. They’d missed lunch and it had been hours since the toast John had eaten only half of on the couch this morning before being interrupted.

 

John has just finished the last bite of his sandwich, and had managed to slip some crisps and apple slices to Sherlock between the cups of tea, when Sherlock jumped up with an exclamation.

“That’s it! John, let’s go!” He yelled. They both grabbed their coat when Sherlock suddenly turned again.

“Better grab your gun.”

John nodded. “Okay. But you have to text Lestrade, okay?” Sherlock looked like he was going to argue, or pout, but in the end he nodded. As John returned back down the stairs Sherlock was just returning his phone to his pocket. John raised a questioning eyebrow and Sherlock nodded grudgingly.

 

And, like the majority of their cases together so far, it ended in both a chase and an arrest. Though this time there were two arrests. Sherlock had correctly deduced the killer was a father/son team hell-bent on retribution for the wife/mother they’d felt had abandoned them. They’d killed two similar women first before their actual target, attempting to hide it as a serial killer.

Lestrade had even made it in time for the exciting conclusion and confession drawn from having the twenty-something son held at gunpoint by a furious John. The young man had swung a random piece of industrial wood at Sherlock, nearly rendering him unconscious. John had not been pleased. He figured the man should be lucky that Lestrade arrived when he did. The father may have confessed under duress while John held the gun, but only the combined efforts of Sherlock and Lestrade had convinced John to lower the weapon.

John and Sherlock had been about to slip out when Lestrade caught sight of them. One look and John knew that wasn’t happening.

“Jesus, John. Where the hell’d you get that thing and what are you doing bringing it where you know there’ll be police? I can’t turn a blind eye every time the two of you get up to something you shouldn’t.”

John, looking abashed, was about to speak when Sherlock interrupted.

“Honestly, Detective Inspector, what do you take John for? He’s a perfectly respectable army doctor. He has a permit, of course, from the Home Office.” John’s shocked face almost gave them away; Lestrade glanced between the two of them in confusion. Sherlock had the decency to look at least slightly abashed.

“Well, he will if you ask again in the morning.”

“Your damn brother,” John said with a small sigh. “I guess at least he’s good for a few things.”

“I’ve been remarkably fond of him lately,” Sherlock replied enigmatically. Both John and Lestrade stared at him for a moment until Sherlock turned away and hailed a cab. Lestrade’s eyebrow rose towards John, but John was just as flummoxed and merely shrugged in response as he hurried to catch up with Sherlock.

 

And just like that, things between them were okay. Except they hadn’t talked about anything, hadn’t dealt with the tension, the misunderstandings, or the argument. They’d simply settled back into a routine. John worked three or four half days a week and was at Sherlock’s beck and call the remaining time. They solved two more cases in the next week for Lestrade and four private ones. And if, after each one, as Sherlock smiled his one perfectly happy, self-satisfied smile that John had privately begun to call his “solved” smile, John’s stomach and heart would do a little flip, well, it wasn’t the worse thing John had ever ignored.

Money was steady and they were both busier than not. John typed up two more blog posts and marveled over the increased traffic to the site. Sherlock had scoffed at him until he saw the numbers and proceeded to pout over them. His blog had never attracted that much attention, despite its obviously higher quality content. John forced himself to put his thoughts and feelings on the back burner, resolved to let him and Sherlock settle into themselves a bit more, to iron out their friendship before he would push the issue. Because, he figured, that would probably be the best and easiest way.

 

But, really, that would only cause it to blow up that much worse when it came to head–which it undoubtedly would.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. One more chapter after this I think!

 

Chapter 5

 

And with every case and every day that passed them by, they settled themselves more and more into a routine that John was beginning to feel would be near impossible to dig themselves out of, a routine of evasion and perceived normalcy. They shared cabs together, they ordered food together, and ate both in restaurants and at home almost always just the two of them. John may have been going to work three to four times a week, but it seemed, amazingly, to not decrease the amount of time they spent in each other’s presence. It both enraged and encouraged him. But they seemed unable to move beyond and John couldn’t find the words, or the nerve, to start the conversation.

 

John was in a good mood as he got off from the clinic Friday just after lunchtime. His patients had all been remarkably well mannered today and nobody had insisted on self-diagnosing from the internet, as seemed the craze these days. He disliked those ones even more than he did the screaming toddlers and their constantly apologizing parents.

His smile brightened as he thought of going back to the flat and lazing about the rest of the afternoon with Sherlock. Well, John would laze about and Sherlock would be his own brand of crazy as he swept around the flat in a constant stream of motion and noise.

‘Grabbing Thai. Want anything?’ he texted to Sherlock. His phone beeped almost instantly in reply.

‘No. New case; we need to go to the bank when you get back. Don’t dawdle. SH’ John made a noise halfway between indignation and humor as he read it. It was a typical message from Sherlock, but John felt touched that Sherlock was obviously waiting for him, something that did not always occur, especially lately.

He phoned in his order at their now usual Thai place before he caught the Tube and it was ready for him once he’d exited the station, popping directly into the conveniently located restaurant. Once back at the flat, John ate his food quickly. Sherlock herded him along the entire time and it was all John could do not to choke as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

“Case, John.” Sherlock intoned at least four times in the ten minute window, as if John had somehow forgotten.

John was surprised when, after a short cab ride, ‘bank’ translated to Tower 42 and Shad Sanderson Bank. And was even more surprised after he met Sebastian. There was obviously some strained history there and John wondered momentarily, not for the first time, about whatever experiences Sherlock must have had in uni, and even his whole life prior to meeting John. They certainly weren’t screaming warm and fuzzy and John’s fingers clenched into a fist momentarily at his side as he reigned himself in, resigned to ignore it for now.

The case itself, a break-in where nothing was stolen and the entry route was a complete mystery, has John confused but Sherlock practically humming in glee. The yellow characters spray painted on the wall meant nothing to John, but Sherlock had all but danced around as he dug for information on the trading floor and his phone simultaneously. Once more before having left, John was surprised, this time by the check Sebastian handed him that Sherlock all of ignored. John wasn’t about to turn it down though, not with that many digits on it and all of the awkwardness between them that had stemmed from his decision to get a job.

And after just a day of research, both Sherlock and John are deeply entrenched in this case, chasing down signs, symbols, and people all over the city. Despite working three shifts during that next week, John still managed to accompany Sherlock on a hunt for artifacts and clues, through Chinatown, at the museum, and to the train yard. Overall they are almost too busy to notice the tension still between them. Almost.

Largely John felt he was doing little besides existing next to Sherlock, but perhaps that was enough for them. He was slightly lost on the case, which was not unusual, but the DI who is not Lestrade is a dick to Sherlock and so John vented his frustrations on him a bit louder than he should have. But the bodies had started to pile up, and he really didn’t like Sherlock—two things that John wouldn’t stand for.

Then, after three deaths and numerous decipher attempts, Sherlock confronted the gang and walked away, stolen item and dignity still in place. It really all happened after the circus incident when Sherlock nearly got them both beaten up or skewered. John was frustrated and stormed off, needing space. Sherlock, still intent on the last sections of the code and finalizing the case, wandered off after an exclamation and a short glance towards John’s retreating form that, had John noticed, may have changed the tide of their relationship then and there.

Instead, the next thing John remembered was groggily coming to, tied to a chair and facing an arrow. He was obviously in an underground tunnel, perhaps the very ones he and Sherlock had traversed the days before, but outside of that John can't seem to place what is going on. The Chinese acrobats from the circus pop out of the woodwork and the pulley system facing John is nearly identical to the one he'd seen this evening already. That gave him more than enough clues to know he didn’t want to be here.

Suddenly a woman's voice rang out, “Where is your Sherlock now?” She taunted.

John stared around in confusion unable to process immediately what was going on, save the giant arrow still pointed towards him, or who this woman was.

“Will he come and save you? Time is counting down. Where is the great Sherlock Holmes? His fan has so much to say about him.” She yelled out, voice lilting.

The sand began to drop from the bag and John couldn't concentrate on the woman any more. His eyes darted frantically and his hands worked hastily as he attempted to untie the ropes that bound him to the chair. It seemed forever but was possibly less than 30 seconds later that he heard the welcome taunting of Sherlock's voice. John would never complain about that arrogant tone again. Or he’d give Sherlock at least one free pass.

Sherlock had somehow taken out two of the men gathered there before the woman pulled out a gun. Sherlock's knowledge of physics and trajectories began stumbling out of his mouth as he endeavored to talk her down. His voice was coming from here and then there and John could only continue to struggle and hope that Sherlock had a plan that was slightly better than his, which was panic and thrash around in about 45 seconds.

John struggled throughout it against the bindings on his hands and attempted to tip the chair. He managed it but it was at the same moment that he realized that the rest of the guards minus the one Sherlock had in a chokehold behind John are suddenly down and he was actually already mostly free. The arrow chose that second to shoot and whizzed by his head and pierced the last of the gang just as Sherlock angled their bodies strategically. The look that passes between the two of them was as much indecent as it was heartfelt.

 

DI Dimmock showed up just as Sherlock finished untying John, ruining whatever had just passed between their eyes, and suddenly can do nothing but crow about Sherlock and his solving of the case and general wonderfulness. John’s lips are pursed and Sherlock has them herded out mere moments before John would have succumbed to punching the man.

Afterwards as they take a cab home, they are full of energy, adrenaline, and excitement. They are giggling and chatting as they opened the door to 221b. And whatever it was that came over John he suddenly couldn't, doesn't want to, resist it. He leaned solidly against Sherlock for just a moment trying to convey it to him in touch, give him a slight warning. And then it was too late and he had him pushed up against the wall, legs straddled on the bottom two stairs. His lips were on Sherlock’s in the next moment, snogging him senseless. There was pent up and latent aggression, attraction, passion, fervor, reverence, and a hundred other emotions that John cannot seem to untangle. And it had become the single hottest thing he has ever experienced. They continued as they side stepped up the stairs, neither one willing to quite let go. They somehow found the couch and then it was a mess of hands, discarded coats, and belt buckles. It is over within minutes and it seemed both fumbled and sure, intense and gentle. John had a smile on his face afterwards that he was sure looked pathetic.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

Snogging the heck out of Sherlock and sharing the best mutual hand job of John’s life hadn’t seemed to actually solve any of John’s problems—in fact, it seemed to only make them worse. Whatever he’d been feeling before was now exponentially worse and also laid frighteningly bare. Every second of their time together John was painfully aware of Sherlock—aware of his presence, his movements, his possibly conceived thoughts and feelings. John wasn’t prepared to hold on much longer. He may have been trained in the art of war, but not in the art of love.

 

It was the following day after the incident when John was kidnapped by Mycroft. They were out of tea and bread, about the only two things Sherlock would reliably consume, and so John had taken it upon himself to head out to the shops. After two blocks of John having attempted to ignore the black sedan inching along next to him, he’d given in. It wasn’t worth the fight or the stares. The warehouse they ended up in was a different one, but the situation eerily similar to their first meeting for that interview all those months ago.

“What exactly are you and my brother attempting to partake in?” Mycroft enquired without preamble as soon as John was close enough to hear him. John had stuttered for a moment, unsure what exactly Mycroft was insinuating.

“There are cameras situated throughout 221B Baker Street’s main entrances to ensure the continued safety of my brother.”

John had stared at Mycroft for a second before he’d blushed bright red, visions of their interaction on the stairs the day before running through his head.

“I press the issue only because the two of you seem quite incapable of… well of anything, honestly,” Mycroft added almost absentmindedly. John tried not to stare at him, but it was hard to resist. Was Mycroft actually being encouraging? Or at least his version of it?

“If I might offer a bit of advice…?” Mycroft trailed off. John, apparently, was destined to spend this entire interaction with his mouth agape. His eyes darted to Anthea, standing slightly to Mycroft’s right. A smile twitched at her lips, as if she could read John’s incredulous thoughts. John couldn’t fathom Mycroft having any practical experience in this area—in fact the thought mildly terrified him. He coughed.

“I think we’re okay, Mycroft. Thank you though for your…um, concern,” John tacked on in a last attempt at holding on to his reactions. Mycroft may seem to have sided with him on this, but he wouldn’t put it past him to use whatever weapon was hiding in his brolly should John happen to burst out laughing or lunge away in terror.

Mycroft raised one elegant eyebrow at him in an obvious mock. He did, however, nod succinctly and signal to Anthea, who stood abruptly and walked away.

“Come along, John,” she said when he didn’t immediately follow her.

He’d stood up and nodded briefly to Mycroft before he hurried after Anthea, more than happy to exit the situation and the building.

“I had someone get your shopping for you,” she told him as they climbed back into the car.

“Well, thank you, that makes this situation slightly less harassing,” John responded caustically, but with a slight smile on his face. She’d simply smiled sweetly in response.

“I also had them pick you both up Starbucks. But if you don’t want it, that’s fine, I could use the caffeine.”

“Like I’m turning down caffeine after having to deal with Mycroft,” John replied with a snort and reached for the cup with a J on it. The silence settled between them habitually, days of riding to and from the SIS coming back to both of their memories.

 

John trudged slowly up the stairs, the shopping and two take away cups slowing his already measured pace even more. His odd meeting with Mycroft had wiped the energy out of him. They _were_ pathetic, the pair of them, dancing around this for so very long. That was twice now they’d snogged each other senseless and they’d still had yet to have a real conversation pertaining to it. John was turning it over in his head as he walked through the kitchen door and Sherlock’s sudden appearance and voice startled him.

“You smell like Mycroft,” Sherlock had sneered before seeing the cups and relenting slightly in his glare.

“Yeah, well, he wanted to have a little ‘talk’. Hard to say no when the car follows you for a few blocks and everyone is staring at you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed and he had immediately pulled out his phone, fingers flying along the keyboard while simultaneously drinking his latte. John stared, transfixed, for a moment until he shook himself out of it. John was a little concerned about what Mycroft would reply to Sherlock with about their conversation and busied himself with putting away the shopping to avoid direct contact.

Sherlock continued to text for a few minutes, longer than he usually maintained with Mycroft, and suddenly announced they had a case. (“Only a six, John, but Lestrade is begging.”) They were out the door and had hailed a cab within minutes.

 

John decided that he and Sherlock must have been giving off vibes. Mycroft was one thing, but now it had spread. They were at the crime scene when Lestrade approached John to quietly inquire about ‘just what the bloody hell’ the two of them were doing.

“Not that I actually want to know,” he had hastened to add on. “Bloody hell. But, you’re good for him, you know? He isn’t quite as… as fractious as he used to be.”

“Um…thanks? I think.” John had replied, eyes still on Sherlock. “I’m honestly not sure I know what we’re doing either, if that makes you feel any better.”

“You’re doing more than anyone else has, that must mean something, especially for him,” Lestrade had said, an odd look on his face.

 

For some reason Lestrade’s words hit home where none of Mycroft’s words or John’s  thoughts quite had. Sherlock was not a people person; no one would have said that about him. He also didn’t suffer idiots, and he often called John one, though sometimes with a small hint of what John hoped was care or indulgence. Therefore, the very fact that he seemed to not only allow John’s presence, but actually welcomed it, was more telling than most people’s words would be. It gave John a new confidence as he mulled that over, watching Sherlock tear the crime scene to pieces, and Anderson with it. Maybe it wasn’t words so much that they needed; though John wasn’t going to let them get away with none—they’d had enough confusion between them already.

 

It was now or never, and by the following evening, John couldn’t take it anymore. The newest case had just been solved and their heated snog and tumble had been almost two days ago.

They’d dealt with the moving in together, the near constant togetherness, and the friendship. They’d come out on top, or so John felt. John could handle living with Sherlock—something he felt sure very few could claim. And that should have translated, he would have thought, easily into an aid for furthering their relationship. But they were both too settled, too set in their ways, and yes, too scared, to rock the boat.

Well not anymore. He’d invaded Afghanistan, for Christ’s sake. And moved in with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t sure anything could stop him anymore.

They were on the stairs, just in the door from having wrapped up the case. John couldn’t put it off any longer, didn’t want to. Once again he cornered Sherlock on the stairs, barred his entrance to the flat this time and forced him to confront the issue. He stared at him solidly for a moment, letting the situation fall around them and settle.

“Sherlock, we need to talk, please.”

“I don’t see what there is to discuss.” Sherlock said without looking at John.

John spluttered. “You don’t see what there is to discuss?”

“I misunderstood the situation and incorrectly deduced you. We both seem to be a bit confused actually. End of story.” He bit out.

“Incorrectly deduced?” John laughed dryly, distracted momentarily from his mission. “I bet it kills you to say that.”

“Thank you, John, for continuing to rub this folly in my face,” Sherlock replied tightly, turned on his heel and attempted to brush past John.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You didn’t misread the situation. Or me!” He yelled, trying to get him to stop moving, to stop hiding.

It was successful. “What?” Sherlock asked, shoulders taut, still faced away from John.

“I’m saying you and me. That you didn’t misread it, and I wasn’t confused!” John tried to rein his voice in, but it still came out almost as a yell. Quietly, he added on, “And I thought maybe you were thinking that as well.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out, practically before John had a chance to even finish. “Yes,” he added one more time as he’d turned towards John, eyes taking in every detail of the situation. John felt intoxicated and more important than a crime scene at that moment.

“Okay, then,” John responded with a nod and a smile and nudged them both up the stairs and into the flat and into Sherlock’s bedroom.

 

 

Nothing changed. Well, not nothing, but near enough that John was slightly confused. He wasn’t disappointed, didn’t think he could be with the way things had gone. But having decided to embark upon a relationship with your flatmate and friend, John had thought something would change. Sure, there was snogging and cuddles and sex now, but there was still fighting and take out and solving crimes. There was still work at the clinic, experiments on the table, and coffee, lots of coffee, but there was also touches and smiles and looks of understanding.

And John was pretty sure none of that was changing, ever. And maybe that was a good sign for it all; that their day-to-day life had already been so bound. It had never felt like this before, he’d never settled so quietly and quickly into a partnership.

They didn’t tell anyone about the shift, didn’t proclaim it to the world, but all those closest to them noticed with a small smile. It was in the slight relaxing of Sherlock’s shoulders, normally held so rigid, and in the slight turn of John’s stance, as if he could never quite turn away from Sherlock. But, mostly, it was in the undeniable and undefinable energy that existed between the two—the constant awareness of each other and the small protections and smiles they gave each other. Lestrade once called it happiness, but John thought it went beyond that. He and Sherlock had found themselves in each other, and there was no going back from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the second installment in this series, I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews, as always, are appreciated!  
> We haven’t quite seen the last of this universe, so be ready for more (hopefully soon!).


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